Just Get Through This Night
by zooropa1
Summary: Ville and her son wind up in the world of SVU.


"Holy fuck!"

"Will you stop saying that? What is it?" Martin asked Jonathan who was in the living room just off the kitchen.

"Can't help it, my mother was Irish."

"Your mother died before you were a year old. What is it?"

"Donkey's balls!"

"Otter, what are you _doing_ in there?"

Jonathan grabbed his mug and joined Martin in the kitchen. "I can't write. I've got a character fleshed out but I don't know what to do with him. All I've got is his backstory."

Martin took the mug, washed it and set it on the sideboard to dry. "I thought you were working on an Op Ed piece for The Times?"

"I finished that yesterday. This just so fucking frustrates me!" He plopped down at the dinner table. "He's got all this rich history but I can't move him forward. What time do your rounds start? We should go to the diner tonight."

"Why don't you write his backstory then and see where it goes from there?"

"It's all on that old PC laptop that crashed. I can't get anything off of it. It also had my fathers' story on it. Do we have time to hit the diner before your rounds start?"

"So _that's _what's really bothering you. You're still a little raw from Toby's passing and I don't think you ever got over losing Chris." Martin wanted to be sympathetic to his younger lover but one could only handle so much angst a day.

Jonathan sighed dramatically. "For the last time, I do _not_ have a Daddy complex. It's been awhile since we saw Alice; we should go to the diner sometime in the forseeable future."

"For the next to the last time, I did not say that. My rounds start at eight so we should take separate cars."

"Nah, Mel would drive me home if I asked. I don't know why you don't like me walking home alone. This is isn't the city you know."

"Tell me about it," Martin glanced out the window of the farmhouse. Upstate countryside as far as the eye could see. "But there is a penitentiary here. You're an award winning journalist; why you feel compelled to write fiction is beyond me."

"Prison releases are in the mornings and the bus to the city leaves at 10:15. It's not like they skulk about all day and night. My mother wrote dozens of journals. She was a fantastic fictionist." He struck a match and lit a cigarette, "I've read them hundreds of times; if I could write a tenth as good, I'd be a fucking award winning author."

"When did you start fucking smoking?" Martin plucked the cigarette out of his partner's mouth and took a puff. He handed it back. "Go get the laundry; it's your turn."

"And don't go knocking Oz, either; my mother and fathers met in that hellhole."

"I know, I know, she was a C.O. in the experimental unit where they were cellmates."

"She was _the _chief C.O. of Em City," Martin heard as Jonathan climbed the stairs to the loft bedroom. "That's why everybody called her Chief."

"Why don't you write _her_ story then? Adapt her journals?"

"I did, it's on that fucking laptop, piece of shit." The laundry was heaved over the loft railing and landed on the couch. "I don't have that much so I'm throwing your shit down, too."

"Don't throw my shit down," Martin started, as his dirty clothes were dropped over the railing. Jonathan came bounding back downstairs. "You know I hate it when you do that. Don't expect me to kiss you with that mouth either."

Grinning wolflishly, like a true Scorpio, Jonathan took hold of his lover's belt. "Fine, you can fuck me over the washing machine."

Martin smiled fondly. "You're hopeless. Don't you mean your mother's Whirlpool?" He gathered up an armful of laundry. "Aren't you worried about desecrating her memory?"

"Did I mention she was a redhead? Which means I have a little redhead in _me._" He leaned in and kissed Martin on the mouth. "And you are _so_ gonna love fucking me over that washing machine."

Jonathan had opened up since he was that 16 year old college freshman Martin met at Columbia when he was a sophomore. Martin knew right away the shy scared kid was something special and was willing to wait 2 years to bed him. 2 years of seriously heavy petting.

_Jonathan awoke with a start. The first thing he noticed he was covered in come, "Sorry - nocturnal emissions." He opened his eyes expecting to see the stone walls of his cell at the monastery. Instead he was in a decent bed in a modern room he couldn't remember at first. A diaphanous fog hung over the bed and he felt a definite presence and a caress…not again, he thought._

"A fucking succubus, can you believe it?" He squirmed in the soft chair. Why did he always pick this chair whenever he came to see Rachel at her home office? He could wait to see her at the Legacy house on the island but Nick and Alex were there and the lines of confidentiality a little blurred.

"Was it the little girl again?"

"You said she'd pass over to other side but this is the third time she's…visited me."

Rachel knew better than to contradict a client but Jonathan was a co-worker more than a patient. "I believe I said 'hopefully'. Are you sure it's the girl?"

"Fuck I hope not! And don't ask if it was my mother; I don't think she would contact me that way."

"Are you sure this wasn't just a dream? You are allowed to have ordinary dreams you know."

"I don't even _need_ to sleep so how can I be dreaming? Why would I dream up an entire life where I was a gay man? I'm not even wired that way." He took a puff of his cigarette.

Rachel sighed patiently. "Jonathan, I've asked you not to smoke in here."

He put it out, "Then why do you have an ashtray?"

"I don't. You're conjuring again. Are you able to control it?"

"I donno, maybe, maybe not. Fuck me."

"What is it?"

"I just realised I'm still dreaming."

"I can assure you, you're awake and you're talking with me."

"No, this is something else…." He leaned forward. "It's like I can get a feel of her but she slips away."

"The little girl?"

"No, my mother. Fuck me."

"Jonathan, I've asked you not to swear."

"Sorry, I'm Irish."

_He started awake. Where was he this time? "Oh, the monastery. Terrific." He rolled off the cot holding his head between his hands and laughed in frustration. "She tried to warn me about this. Ma, where the fuck are you? Why can't I find you?" He grabbed a towel and went to the communal showers, grateful it was first light. The brothers would be in the chapel at Prime so he should have the showers to himself._

_He draped his simple clothing over the shower stall wall. The water was cold, of course, this is a fucking monastery. Fuck, he would have to confess to the sin of swearing in God's house again. Shit. For a moment he let the water flow over his body, raising goose bumps across his skin. He closed his eyes and called. There was an amorphous response. It seemed as if his mother were asleep. Always, he thought, but time is relative, especially when trying to cross timelines. Damn it. It's like getting a busy signal with no voice mail._

_He set about his day of mending stone fences, hammering board walls and helping a shepherd chase down a stray sheep. He took his midday meal with the brothers, looking to catch the abbott, Abbott Padraic. Jonathan wondered if the man had a last name. Was a man of god supposed to give up his name? Jonathan's own father had given up his name. 'Loosen my lips' indeed. _

_He found the abbott in the kitchens, exhorting the brothers that washing dishes is God's work, too. "Ah, young Jonathan, come to take up your vocation, eh?" It was a running joke between them, at least it was a joke to Jonathan. Him a celibate priest? Not bloody likely. There was a lass in Lismore with his name tattooed on her arse._

_Padraic sensed these thoughts and intoned, "You are a terrible influence. Ten Hail Marys."_

_"__I don't know any girls named Mary," the young man quipped._

_"__You've come to me about your mother again. Let's retire to my office."_

_The chairs in the rectory were deliberately fucking uncomfortable, Jonathan was sure. "I've been trying to reach my mother; I'm even trying it in my dreams. I can't understand why I can't get through to her."_

_"__Maybe she doesn't want you to get in touch with her. Had you considered that, young man?"_

_"__I've been on my own my whole life. She's not trying to teach me a lesson, old man. Something's wrong. She might even be in trouble."_

_"__Your mother is always getting into trouble. It's what she's best at," Padraic coughed. "Must run in the family - her father was the same way."_

_"__You knew my grandfather, too?"_

_The abbott huffed, "I wouldn't call him that. You're not ready for that story." He shifted uneasily._

_"__What is it, old man?" The abbott looked uncomfortable. "You sense something, don't you? Where is she? Tell me."_

_"__I would go back to America if I were you. A big city in the East, I think."_

_"__Well, that just narrows it down."_

_"__You're as impudent as her. You don't find her by going there; you project a part of yourself."_

_Jonathan mulled that over. Project only part of himself - wouldn't that be dangerous? Fuck yeah. He would need a safe place where he would be uninterrupted. His cell here of course. "Okay, how do I start?"_

_The Abbott smiled thinly. "You pray for guidance, of course."_

New York. Again. Fucking of course it had to be the one city he fucking hated. No space. Stiffiling in the summer, dangerously freezing in the winter. And that was just the people. Oh wait, it gets worse. He opened his eyes and the ceiling seemed impossibly tall. He sat up. Wait, something's not right here. Everything was so big. He looked down at his body, the body of an eight year old. Fuck me. Fucking fuck me!

Oh, wait a minute, this is a hospital. Was she sick, dying? No, either she just arrived - or - she was getting ready to check out to another time, another place. He had to find her fast. Nurse. Little boy, lost, seeks mom. That'll fucking play. This will be easy.

The nurse led him down the row of beds. How could she be so close and not be felt? Uh, oh. The woman in the bed was a trashed out junkie whore, drooling all over herself and obviously sedated. He could feel her pain; she's dying of AIDS. No, no, no. The nurse urged him to take her hand and speak to her, how comforted she would be knowing her little boy was there for her. Oh hell no, this wasn't Ville. He pulled away from the dying bag of bones and flesh, feeling sick. He yelled for his ma. The nurse kept insisting this was his mother. This is a fucking nightmare. He searched around - how to get out without leaving this reality and having to start over from the cell at Mt. Melleray? He was screaming now. A social worker was called in. He struggled with all his might but where to go?

"What is going on here?" a newcomer said. He turned around. She was like a vision. "Ma!"

The social worker explained, he asked to see his mother but was obviously distraught at her condition.

"I work with children. Let me see him in my office." He obediently took her hand, relieved as she introduced herself herself, "I'm Dr. Ville Evans."

"Of course you are," the boy said, preternaturally calm now. He walked beside her with confidence. She showed him into her office and asked the social worker to wait outside. Good, they would be alone. She invited him to take a seat and asked him his name. At first, he was confused. Oh, right, the body image thing.

"I'm Jonathan, your son. I know I look weird in this body but it's really me and am I glad to see you." She studied him carefully. "Jonathan. What's your last name?" She was playing it safe, good. "Evans," he promptly replied, "Your son. Go ahead, ask me anything."

Ever so patiently she broke the news to him, "Jonathan, your mother is very sick, you understand what that means, don't you?" Well, yeah, you could put it like that, he supposed. "I guess," he said a little uncertainly, "but you're better now and we can go home."

"Jonathan," she said softly, "your mother is dying. Do you know what that means? Do you know what I mean by dying?"

"But you're fine, I found you and we can go home now."

"I know this is hard and you may be confused by what's happening. The lady waiting for you outside is going to make sure you have a safe place to sleep tonight and you can come back tomorrow to see your mother if that's what you want. Now I'm going to give you my card. If you need to talk about what's happening to your mother or what's going to happen with you, all you have to do is ask for me here, okay?"

Oh fuck no. "What's the matter, Ma?"

"Jonathan, I'm a doctor that specializes in listening to people talk. If you need to talk, you come see me or call me, okay?"

"Okay but I'm your son. Jonathan Thomas Evans. Don't you remember me? Remember?"

Sympathetic, she softly responded, "Jonathan, I don't have a son; I work with children. Now you're going through a very stressful time but you need to understand this: your mother is not going to survive this time. She has a very bad disease that's killing her. Do you understand what I'm saying?" Her eyes were killing him. She didn't get it, get that he needed her to acknowledge him. He tried to keep calm; his hold on this reality was starting to slip.

"Yeah, yeah, she's dying. But she's not my mother, you are. Just take me home with you," he focused on connecting with her mind, "we can do the talking thing there."

"I'm afraid I can't do that, Jonathan, but we'll get you settled somewhere and you can come back tomorrow. I need to talk to your case worker right now so I want you to wait here in my office; I'll be right back. I promise."

Fuck this, I'm not leaving here without you, he thought as forcefully as he could, pressuring her to recognise the soul behind his eight year old eyes. She patted his knee; fucking patted him on the knee - who does that? She rose and went through the door. For the first time, he started to really worry that this might not work and he would have to start all over again.

He extended his consciousness beyond this room. This is a hospice, where people go to die as comfortably as possible. Shit, shit, shit, stay focused on her.

The social worker was saying, "There are no beds available at the group homes or shelters for children."

"This child needs to get some serious sleep, he's got a particularly bad case of transference, not the usual kind to be used as a coping mechanism. He's dissociated himself from his mother. I can admit him to the psych ward but I'd rather that be the last resort."

Exasperated, the younger woman sighed, "I'll call around again."

Ville came back to find Jonathan studying her book titles trying sound them out. "Pa-sicko-loggy." She smiled and prompted him, "Psychology. What school do you go to? You're probably in the third grade, am I right?" She went to a low shelf of children's books. Winnie fucking Pooh, was she serious?

"I dunno. I guess." He wasn't sure what his strategy should be. Play along for now. "Yeah, I'm in the third grade but I don't read so good. Will you help me?" he asked plaintively.

"Sure why don't we try this one." She sat next to him; Jaysus but she smelled good. "Can you read the title for me?"

"One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish by Doctor Zeus." She laughed a little; god he missed that laugh, "It's Dr. Suess." It was fucking humiliating if the circumstances weren't so dire. So he read the damn book, making deliberate mistakes so she could help him. Get her used to the idea of helping him. That's gotta be the fucking key here.

The social worker returned and shook her head slightly. Jonathan perked up, "So I can stay with you?" then he toned it down, "just tonight. Prease?"

"I think you mean 'please' but I can't do that," she looked up at the social worker, "Give me his case file; I'll take him to Bellevue then and do an emergency intake."

"Why can't you just take me home? I won't be a bother, I promise!"

"Jonathan, I don't have a place for you," she explained.

"I'll sleep on the floor; I've slept in worse places. It won't be a problem." His voice started to rise. Christ's sake, focus on the mission damnit.

Once they got to Bellevue and he realised in what sort of place she meant to leave him, he lost it. "Ma, you can't leave me here! Ma!" He struggled against the goons in white who were surprised at his strength. Someone gave him a shot. He knew he only had seconds. "Ma, don't leave me again! WAKE UP!" he screamed with all the psychic force he could muster before falling unconscious.

A couple of hours later he fought for consciousness, finding himself in a white cell. Oh fuck. He rolled onto his side. At least the padded floor was more comfortable than the cot in the monastery. He wondered if it were too late to go back there. Sleep overtook him.

The next morning she came to see him, thank you Mother of Christ! Something was a little different about her, not quite as sure of herself. "I'm going to check you out of here for the day."

"Can I get some real food? They serve barf here. I mean that literally; it was fucking awful."

"Watch your language," she admonished him gently. "Yes, ma'am. Sorry," he shuffled to his feet.

"Then you can see your mother and we'll do the talking-thing in my office. There's some people I want you to meet. How does that sound?" He nodded, as long as we're together, come on, Ma, wake up. "Good," she said, "I think we're making progress."

He threw up when they stopped by the junkie whore's bed; she even smelled like death. Having had enough of this, he focused on her heart. He'd killed people before but not like this. He concentrated on stopping her heart. She flatlined. Ville pulled him away so the doctors could work on the pitiful woman. He closed his eyes and concentrated on stilling her heart even as the professionals tried twice to bring her back before finally declaring her dead.

Ville knelt down next to him. "Jonathan, I am so sorry." He closed his eyes, drained from the effort. She was going to die anyway, right? They had kept telling him that.

"Can we go home now?" he pleaded sullenly. Instead, she answered "Why don't we go back to my office; I've some people I want you to meet."

He sighed. "M'kay." When they got to her private practice office (not the one at the hospital), there was a man waiting for her. She kissed him on the cheek. Jonathan, immediately jealous, took her hand and squeezed.

"Jonathan, this is Elliot, my friend. He's a policeman. Would you mind if he talked to you while I go find the people I wanted you to meet?" Like I have a choice. Where he grew up, you avoided the coppers at all costs or you'd wind up in the H blocks. "Okay."

Elliot and the boy went into her plushy office, much nicer than the one at the hospital. Jonathan plopped down on the couch and absently grabbed a stuffed bear. Something to keep between him and the copper who unclipped his badge. "You wanna hold it?" Jonathan took it in hand. "See how it's gold; you know what that means?" Jonathan shook his head. "It means I'm a detective. You know what a detective does?" Jonathan looked away to roll his eyes. He looked innocently back at Elliot and shook his head.

"A detective finds things out in order to help people, like you. I'd like to ask some questions about your family if that's okay." Uh-oh, is this a fucking test? Elliot asked about his immediate family: father, grandparents? Who took care of him when his mother became ill? Jonathan bullshitted as much as he could but finally declared "I take care of Ma and she watches me."

"I'm sure she's watching you now," Elliot said gently, "but we need to find your family if we can, to see if they can take care of you now that she's gone. And you can start by not lying to me this time." Jonathan's eyes snapped to Elliot's; so, not a dumb copper.

"My father's dead. Ma said he died before I was born," he started to genuinely tear up. "My step father died last year. I don't know where my sister is. I don't have any grandparents," he said in perfect honesty; after all, it was all true. "Ma's all I got."

Elliot nodded. "I'll run a records check anyway. One more question. What school do you go to?"

"Uhm," uh-oh. "I don't go to school."

"Your mom never enrolled you. That's common with…people in your mom's situation." Elliot put his hand on the boy's shoulder. "Listen, I'm going to be honest with you. You're gonna go through a rough patch but it can get better. I'm gonna give you my card, in case you ever need anything. Alright, buddy?"

Jonathan took it solemnly. Great, I can start a collection. Ville was back with a middle-aged couple. Oh, this is not good. Elliot paused and exchanged a few words with her then left. "Jonathan, I want you to meet John and Edwina Goodman. They foster children about your age. Do you know what 'foster' means?"

Tightening his grip on the bear, Jonathan broadcast NO! as strongly as he could. The adults flinched unconsciously. "I don't _wanna_ go with them. I'm supposed to be with you!"

"Jonathan, honey, please just talk with them, get to know them a little bit."

He was furiously blinking back tears. He's never cried in his life and he wasn't about to start now. Unless… Okay, okay pull it together, save it up for later. "Oh-okay," he choked up a little bit, pulled on the bear's ear and scooching into the corner making himself as small as possible.

"Alright, I'm going to step outside," she cut off his protest, "for just a little bit. I'll be right back," she promised as she slipped the door shut behind her. She hurried off after Elliot.

As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Goodman asked, "So, what are some things you like to do?" He proceeded to tell them about his youth in war-torn Belfast - making bombs, blowing things up, "I was really good at it, too." Then he proceeded to tell them things about themselves that he couldn't possibly know - unless the doctor mentioned - but no, he began telling them about the dirty secrets they had from each other, terrorizing them in the process. Fuck, yeah.

Ville caught Elliot before the elevator doors closed. He got back off and they stood aside as others got on and the doors closed completely this time. "El, I've got a very weird vibe off this kid. I think I need to take him home." Elliot sighed. She pressed on, "Just until he settles down. He just lost his mother and…."

"And he has no family and the shelters are full, I know, I know."

"Just this once. One, maybe two nights, tops."

Holding up his index finger, he insisted, "Then you transition him into foster care. You've got your own shit to deal with; you don't need this."

"I think I can stabilise him pretty quickly. I feel like I know him, that I can reach him. It's gonna work out, El." A commotion got their attention. Jonathan came running down the hall in tears, "I don't wanna go with them. Please don't make me go." He wrapped his arms, teddy bear in hand, around her legs and slid down to the floor. Crying he looked up at her, "I belong with you. Please take me home with you."

Ville looked up at the Goodmans, pleadingly. Edwina shook her head slightly, "I don't think we're a good match for him. Good luck, dear." John was a little more blunt, "Kid's got the devil in him," which shocked Ville. All she could do was watch them go while Jonathan continued sniffling and clutching the teddy bear. She looked down at his face. "Please don't send me away," he whispered intensely. Her heart felt like it was going to break. She knelt down and reached for him. He fell into her arms at last.

After a week, she bought a day bed to put in her home office so he'd have a proper place to sleep. Elliot exploded. "Ville, you've been through hell and back. Do you really think you need a kid in your life right now? Hell, you never even wanted to have kids!"

"Maybe I _do_ need this. It's been almost two years…."

"We have worked with victims long enough to know there is no set time frame for recovery. It's not something that ever really goes away. You don't get over it, you adapt. You know that."

"Yes, I was kidnapped and trafficked and yes, I'm going to have to testify at the trial but maybe I need this, El, to focus on someone else…." She knew as soon as she said it that she shouldn't have said it. "To take care of someone besides myself. Fuck, you know what I mean."

He held up his hands, "Alright, alright. We could make this work. One, he needs to be in school, two, he's going to need his own room, and three, you need a babysitter to watch him so you have the option of going back to work."

"I want to adopt him, Elliot." Her gaze was steady and her posture confident. He knew that look; she'd already made a decision and she was going to get what she wanted. Whether he wanted to stick around was up to him.

"You have to wait thirty days to apply and go through the whole vetting process with Children's Services. Just because you're a children's advocate doesn't mean you're fit to be a parent. I don't want to see you get your hopes dashed."

She slowly smiled and leaned into him. "It wouldn't hurt to have a male role model around the house."

He scoffed. "You're not asking me to marry you."

"I know that's not what you want," she snuggled up to him, "at least for now but a stable, professional couple? A New York City police detective with fathering experience and a child psychologist with a flexible practice? What more could they ask for?" She kissed him. They started making out then stopped long enough to retire to her bedroom loft.

Jonathan had been perfectly happy with the office couch but the day bed was nice. The office had a fabulous view of the park, if you liked that sort of thing. "Great, there they go at it again," he said to Bear, lying in the dark on the bed beside him. Bear even had his own blanket and pillow; that was Elliot's idea. El was a decent guy, divorced, father of four, solid. Jonathan just didn't trust cops. Especially one who was _fucking_ his mother! "Jaysus, can't they at least wait till we go to sleep?" Which was a joke because he never needed sleep and because Bear was a fucking teddy bear. He needed someone to confide in; ironically he needed to talk to his mother. But she was asleep — meaning she had no idea who he was or any awareness of her past life or abilities. He was seriously frustrated. He had to reach her somehow.

Then there was this matter of the Bad Man who had arranged the kidnap and torture of his ma almost five years ago. He needed to be dealt with if he got off with an acquittal. Jonathan was experimenting with making himself bigger for a limited period of time. He wouldn't need much time to do what the prick deserved but Jonathan wanted the man to _really_ suffer. It wasn't strictly _legal_, least not in Elliot's book, but this piece of shite deserved whatever Jonathan hoped to dish out.

Then there was this housekeeper, Mrs. McGuilicutty. He thought he could charm the socks off her because she was Irish like him but she had disabused him of that thought right away. She wasn't going to put up with any bullshit from the young master. She reminded him of the Abbott. Hell, maybe she _was_ the Abbott.

Elliot's partner Olivia was nice. Smoking hot. If only he weren't eight fucking years old! "I gotta find a way to wake Ma up, Bear, so we can get out of here. Maybe go back to San Francisco. Maybe back to Ireland. You'd like it there." He fucking fell asleep.

And he found himself falling asleep in the afternoons. And after dinners…something was seriously wrong. He started snacking constantly, always hungry. Yet he remained listless. The school counselor called. The school nurse frequently sent him home after one of his many accidents. He started running a fever. They took him to the emergency room. The doctors and tests couldn't find anything wrong. The doc-on-call sent them home with some prescription strength Tylenol and recommended ice packs and a cold bath.

He described it to his mother in his weekly Talking Time like this: "It feels like I'm expending all my energy just to stay here with you." She heard, "expending energy till I faint." Then she started teaching him something called medi-tay-shun. She practiced it herself; he always thought it must be boring to sit on the floor for 2 hours listening to emo music. But she got him to try it. One day, it hit him. He downloaded an instrumental track called "Rowena's Theme" from some lame movie nobody's ever heard of and inserted it into her playlist. In another lifetime, she'd known the composer.

He was sitting in her lap on the floor trying hard to stay awake. "Let your mind relax. Let your ego go," she intoned as the song started playing. "Listen to the sound of the fingers on the strings…," she trailed off. Suddenly his sense of her flared brightly in his brain and knocked him forward onto his hands and knees. Looking over his shoulder he dared to hope. "Ma?" Her face was in distress, her eyes still closed, her breathing laboured. He crawled over to her, "Ma? Can you hear me?" _Snap out of it; I need you!_

Slowly her eyes opened and scanned the room. Lastly her gaze alighted on him. He held still like a wild animal whose prey has just become aware of its presence. "Well, hello…you," she smiled tentatively. Sweet Jaysus, Holy Mother of God, she was back.

"Ma, it's me."

"Of course, it is, silly, who else would you be?" He recognised bullshit when he heard it. "No, Ma, it's me; I'm your son." Her pupils dilated ever so slightly. Most humans wouldn't have noticed. Slowly the revelation came over her, "Jonathan?"

He pumped his fists in the air and hollered, "YESSS! She's back!" They laughed together but she couldn't stop giggling and clamped her hand over her mouth. Concerned, he asked, "What is it? Are you okay? Is this like a normal thing for you?" She began to catch her breath and burst out with, "You're so cute!" and clamped her hand back over her mouth trying to contain her merriment.

He slammed his fists on his hips; he forgotten his age, "Oh fuck me."

She sobered, "Hey, language."

"Sorry," he mumbled. Grinning again, she said, "Come here" as he tumbled into her lap and his arms wrapped around her. She kissed the top of his head and rocked him back and forth. Something they'd never had the chance to do - be a mother and son. "Can we go home now?" he begged.

She reached out with her senses to see if anyone else was around and to get a sense of their surroundings. "This isn't our home? Whose is it?"

"Well, yeah, it's your apartment but can we go home?" he implored her. "I wanna go home."

"Oh, honey, it doesn't work like that for me." Noting the redness in his face, she felt his forehead. "Jonathan, what's wrong with you?" He told her his symptoms. "You need sleep, right now."

"But I sleep all the time," he repeated as she scooped him up and carried him to his bed.

"Here, lie back and relax. Empty your mind and listen to the sound of my voice." She passed her hand over his face to close his eyelids and began to sing to him an old, ancient Gaellic song. He drifted deeper into a cool, comforting darkness, then into nothingness. Blissful unconsciousness. Gently, she barely scrapped the surface of his mind. As she thought, he'd been constantly and recklessly using energy without taking the time to figure out how to recharge himself.

She got a cool wet cloth from the half bath in the hall and laid it over his forehead, noticed the teddy bear and grinned, picked it up and placed it in the crook of her son's arm. Perfect.

_They had never had the chance to be a real Mother and Son. When he was three, in his original timeline, the IRA stole him from his Dublin family in retaliation for her repeated verbal attacks. _

_One of their soldiers raised him in Derry, county Ulster, Northern Ireland. He was not a nice man, very strict, occasionally abusive toward his adopted son. The mother wanted nothing to do with him, overwhelmed by seven kids of her own. At the age of ten he started running guns, at twelve he learned to make explosive devices for the Organisation. He became quite the little terrorist. One day he got the assignment that changed his life forever._

_He was twenty-four when they sent him to surveille and fact find on an outspoken American in Dublin with a very high profile. Little did he know he was stalking his own mother. They had been separated for twenty-one years. She'd sensed him immediately but allowed him to find his own way to the realisation._

Twilight. She's watching the waves crash ashore. _'Our lives are like that sometimes.'_

From a distance, he saw her sitting barefoot on the sand, her jeans rolled up. The breeze caught the ribbon hanging from the back of her hat. She appeared fit for a woman her age. He glanced up at the cottage by the sea. The daughter no longer lived there, but the husband was probably home as both cars were parked in the drive. Charming little place. He wondered if he's ever lived there.

As he drew nearer, seemingly without having attracted her attention, he cased the situation. The approach was entirely too easy; he'd be in range in a matter of minutes. She was too accessible. Even over the sound of the surf, she ought to have heard him by now. The getaway would not be much of a problem given an accomplice who drove well and knew the area.

The young man walked right up to her. _'Bang. You're dead,'_ he thought.

Ville let him stand there for a moment longer, then looked up at him, studying him: a dark haired boy in his early twenties, dressed in scuffed shoes, ill-fitting trousers, a white T-shirt and a beat up leather jacket. In his dark eyes, she sensed a burden. "I could hear the gears turning in your head the second you came down to the beach from the road," she said mysteriously.

He squatted about four feet from her, ready to move like a cat. "You're a very brave woman."

"They tell me it's my American bravado." She raised her eyebrows and smirked.

He snorted, "Flaunting your foreignness—could get you killed one of these days."

She replied, "My daughter is Irish and my husband is Irish. I think I have every right to be here."

"And what about your missing son?"

Her eyes narrowed at that. "Is this a warning from my so-called friends in the IRA? To stop shooting my mouth off?"

He shook his head and leaned a little closer. "A warning from one who knows how desperate they are these days." He stood to leave.

In the light of the faerie moon, she watched him disappear back down the dark beach.

_She stroked his damp hair, watching him sleep deeply until she heard someone come in the front door. Uh-oh, she should've quizzed the kid before knocking him out. She quickly leaves the room. "Shhh, he sleeping," she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of the most gorgeous man she'd ever seen. She quickly scanned the surface of his mind. NYPD. She looked him over carefully but not obviously. Suit, a detective? No wedding ring. Hmm. And that bod. What had she been doing the last couple of - never mind, time is relative. "Well, hello, you."_

_He grinned, "Hello, you," he gave her a kiss on the mouth. Good sign, she thought. "What's going on with him now?" he moved perfunctorily about the apartment, locking away his badge and gun in a safe. Shedding his jacket. She thought, oh he's comfortable here, an even better sign. She had a sly smile when he turned around. "What?"_

_"__May this never get old," she said enigmatically. He came to her and kissed her again. "He still got that low grade fever?" he asked with a little concern. "Wine or beer?"_

_"__Wine," she replied, following him to the kitchen. "I think it may be going down a bit actually. He just needs a little more REM sleep."_

_"__You think that's the problem? Kids like him _do_ tend to sleep lightly out of anxiety. Considering his birth mother was a long time junkie and probably had lots of boyfriends coming and going, that makes sense." He handed her a glass of red wine and flipped his beer cap into the trash. Harp. At least he has taste. _

_"__You know I was skeptical about your bringing him home, especially while you were still dealing with the aftermath of your own trauma, but I gotta admit you're good for him and he's been good for you. I think you're gonna be a great mom. And you're gonna ace that final evaluation next week."_

_"__Next week," she laughed lightly and took a sip._

_He grinned, "Nervous, Doc?"_

_"__I wasn't until now." Honestly. _

_"__You mind if I look in on him real quick?"_

_"__Of course not." _

_They watched "Marriage Story" which touched off a conversation about his own divorce, years ago and what his kids went through, he thoughts on being a father (of four if she counted right). His opening up was goosed along by her subtle mental influence and piercing questions disguised as a quest for parenting wisdom. By the end of his third beer, he was emotionally wrung out. "I'm always amazed the way you get me to talk about shit I never would have before we met."_

_"__I'm an excellent listener," she replied. He began putting things away and joked, "You better be; that's what they pay you for." Really? She wondered who they were. He came to the living room and put his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder. She noticed how her body melded with his so easily, comfortably. Familiar. He brushed her hair back lightly and placed a delicate kiss just forward of her ear. "Mmm," she purred. _

_"__I'm not going to get much sleep tonight, am I?" he laughed quietly, deeply._

_"__Don't worry, I'll make sure you're ready to go in the morning."_

_After seeing him off the next morning, she went straight to Jonathan's room and flopped down on his bed. "Morning sunshine." He rubbed his eyes. "How do you feel now?"_

_"__Mo'nin'," he mumbled. "Fuck me, I haven't felt this good in, well, never. Thanks."_

_"__Watch and learn, baby boy, watch and learn. So. How old are you?" she grinned. "How'd ya get here?"_

_"__Fuck off. Almost nine, I think. I 'prayed' hard."_

_"__Ah, Abbie sent you. That was dangerous. There's no way he could've known you'd find me. So what's with the stud muffin? Boyfriend? How long? Whadya think of him?"_

_"__Why the hell should I tell you?!" he teased her. Jonathan grinned. "Thought you might fancy him. His name's Elliot Stabler, he used to be a Marine, now he's a detective with the NYPD."_

_"__With a tight ass."_

_He rolled his eyes, "You guys met ten years ago but you disappeared five years ago - they all thought you were dead. Something really bad happened. He won't tell me. There was a trial."_

_"__I should be able to get the transcript. So who am I? They who?"_

_"__You're a psy- psychologist. You had a small practice before you dis-da-ppeared but mostly you consulted for Elliot's unit, Special Victims," he wrinkled his nose, "Sex crimes." _

_"__What's wrong with your speech?" she sounded concerned. He shrugged, "Sometimes I don't talk too good. I guess it's to do, due to my 'age'. Elliot thinks it's trauma. He's teaching me to read at a third level. Third grade level, I mean." The boy yawned. "Can I have somefin to eat? Ma."_

_"__Alright, but then more rest for you. I don't think you're fully recharged." She took his chin - he has his father's chin - in hand and grinned. "What now?" he demanded to know._

_"__You're just so damn cute!"_

_"__Fuck off," he grinned back._

_They aced the final evaluation and charmed the pants off the lady from Children's Services together. "Well, of course it's not up to me but I have a very good feeling about this. You should receive word about your application within 30 days. And may I say, good luck to you both."_

_The Bad Man managed to get a hung jury. Ville was horrifed when she read the transcript of the trial. Jonathan was furious. "That fucker. I'm gonna kill him."_

_"__Jonathan, calm down…."_

_"__Nobody who does something like that deserves to breathe the same air as you. Cocksucker."_

_"__Jonathan, you need to calm yourself. Look, I don't even remember this stuff; it says so right here according to my own testimony."_

_"__He tried to kill you, more than once."_

_When Elliot came home, Jonathan ran to him and hugged his legs. "Elliot, can I borrow your gun?"_

_"__Jonathan!" she admonished him. Out of experience, Elliot moved his gun hip away from the boy, squatted in front of him. "No. Why would you ask me that?"_

_"__I'm gonna kill the Bad Man who hurt Ma," the boy stated matter-of-factly. Elliot glanced over the boy's shoulder. Ville shrugged, "He saw the early news, they talked about the hung jury."_

_"__Look, Jonathan, a hung jury does not mean he gets away with…what he did. It just means the D.A. will have to retry him."_

_Ville gestured that they all sit on the couch together. "Let's be honest with him, El. The odds of a retrial succeeding are not good."_

_"__Believe me, that man will never get near your mother again," Elliot promised. "We've had officers watching the building."_

_"__That's why you won't let me walk to school by myself?"_

_Elliot hesitated before answering. There was no right age to have the Talk about how the world isn't always a safe place, even for good people. "No, your mother doesn't want you to walk to school because you're too young. This is a big city and not necessarily safe for a young boy on his own."_

_"__I know how to take care of myself!"_

_Ville cut them off, "He'd probably charm the pants off anyone who approached him on the street," she quipped. "Enough of this talk. Do we want to dine in or go somewhere?"_

_Later, El said to Ville, "I don't want to question your budding parenting skills…."_

_"__Which you just did."_

_"__But letting him hear the story?"_

_"__I don't think he should be shielded from the real world. The more he improves his reading the more access he has to information and that story is big news. Even Howard is ranting about it."_

_"__You let him listen to Stern?" Elliot replied, a little shocked at the experiences she was exposing the boy to but he was trying to bite back the criticism. "I hope the evaluator doesn't know that. How'd that go by the way?"_

_"__Of course not. She thinks it looks very good. Our court date is in thirty days. We find out then."_

_They went shopping for the occasion and took Jonathan to Barney's to get the look just right. "I don't understand why we have to dress up. They're gonna say yes," he said confidently as he let Ville adjust his sweater vest. _

_"__Because it's court; we've got to dress up for court, not really an occasion for short pants. It'll make a good impression on the judge hearing our application. "_

_"__But he's gonna say yes," the boy insisted confidently. His mother beamed at him, "There, my handsome street waif." He complained, "It itches."_

_"__Because it's new," she replied._

_"__And because it's expensive," Elliot chipped in, stepping through the dressing room curtain, looking definitely above his blue collar class. He protested, "Too expensive. I can't let you let you buy this for me," he protested. Again._

_"__If I have to dress up, you have to dress up, too," Jonathan insisted._

_"__The boy has a fair point," she motioned for Elliot to turn for her. "Besides, you would never buy it for yourself, would you?" Jonathan leaned into her. "She's got ya there, copper."_

_"__I look like a lawyer," Elliot protested._

_The court room was not as imposing as Jonathan feared it would be, family court not as flashy as a criminal court, he guessed. Not that he'd ever been on a docket. Kasey and Olivia were there in support. Jonathan liked them both. He piped up, "We're going to do the town up after this, wanna come?"_

_"__Somebody's confident," Kasey smiled at him. Olivia added, "You're not nervous at all, are you?"_

_"__Of course not. He's gonna say yes," the boy retorted._

_After what seemed for-ever, the judge finished his pronouncement and finally banged the gavel. "Next case."_

_"__What'd he say?" Jonathan hadn't understood a word of the legal jargon. His mother leaned down and whispered, "He said 'yes'" and for the first time she could recall, he gave her, not a smirk nor a sardonic grin, but a genuinely brilliant smile. He honestly looked nine years old for a change. He draped his arms around her neck as she picked him up so they could leave. I am not gonna cry, I am NOT gonna cry. Fuck it. Tears welled up in his eyes so he buried his face in her shoulder._

There he is, the fuckhole. He'll never see it coming, Jonathan swore, trailing the man to his Chelsea address. The Bad Man was unlocking the door to his brownstone. The nine year old boy stepped up, "'Scuse me, mister? I'm lost, can I come in and call my ma? Please?" Charm at full throttle. It's not like the Bad Man was a pedophile. He was just a deranged former colleague of Dr. Evans with a deadly determination to see her humiliated and dead for getting his license revoked and destroying his reputation. He was still on trial for the kidnap-rape of that bitch. The wary man looked, there was no one else around. He'd never seen the boy before but then he did say he was lost. "Please? It'll only take a minute," Jonathan focused his mental powers of persuasion on the scumbag's conscience.

Once they'd entered an interior room with limited view from without, Jonathan started taking his clothes off. Confused, the Bad Man started to protest but his eyes went wide as Jonathan grew to the size of a sixteen year old. The boy lashed out and grabbed the man by the chin and squeezed. "Don't even think of trying to leave." He grew again to twenty-five. "I got a full day planned for you." A knife appeared in his other hand. The Bad Man pissed himself and started jibbering; he couldn't form any words and somehow it was because of the boy - the young man in front of him. Jonathan dragged him upstairs, grinning wolfishly.

Olivia and Finn caught the case. The crime scene was horrific. The victim's throat was cut - one sure stroke - the body mutilated with what turned out to be druidic symbols. Actually, quite artistic in a sick way. The bed, the walls, the single window sill, the floor were covered in blood, the body fairly well drained of it.

"Any fingerprints?" Olivia asked the crime scene investigator.

"Possibly. The perp washed up in the bathroom; we'll drain the traps for hair, fibers, skin cells."

Finn observed, "He - or she - must've got some blood on them. You know who we have to talk to."

"No way Doc did this."

"We still got to get a statement from her, Liv."

"And if her alibi is Elliot? I.A. is gonna be all over it."

"Yeah."

El and Ville were already at the station house; Elliot had gotten a heads up from the responding officers. Jonathan had guessed immediately, "It's the Bad Man. He's dead isn't he?"

Ville started, "Jonathan."

"What makes you say that, buddy?"

"He deserves it. He hurt Ma."

"Jonathan, go to your room. Now," Ville ordered him. "But," he started. She'd never been heavy-handed with him since he'd known her. "What do you say?" she prompted. "Yes, ma'am." He ran to his room.

Captain Don Cragen cursed when he saw them come in. "I'm going to have to separate you two, you know that. Doc, why don't you go with Munch? Elliot, get in here." He closed his office door behind Elliot. "What the hell, Captain, I thought we had eyes on this guy?"

"Not during the trial. A little something called 'harassment'. We did have regular patrols in the area. Guess what? They didn't see squat!" He handed Elliot the patrol logs who asked, "How'd you get these so fast?"

"Doc still has friends on the Force. And someone at One PP wants her back. But your relationship doesn't make I.A. too happy. I know, it shouldn't be their business but it is. So where were you early this morning?"

"Asleep in bed until six."

"Corroboration?"

"We spent the night together."

"Her place or yours?"

"Hers."

"What about the housekeeper?"

"Doesn't arrive till nine."

Cragen blew out, "How 'bout the kid?"

"Cap'n —I don't want to drag him into this."

"Can he corroborate you were there? At 3 a.m.?"

"No, he went to bed early, woke up late."

"Well, did he get up during the night? Kids do that."

"No, he's not an alibi witness. For either of us."

"Great, that's just great. This is going to be _great_," Cragen said sarcastically. "I have to take you off rotation. You can NOT work this case, Elliot."

Kasey showed up, too. "What the hell? We're supposed to give closing arguments today and the guy ends up dead?"

"Ironic, isn't it?" Munch exited the interrogation room. "Poetic justice at its finest."

Finn chimed in, "Do we really have to waste time investigating this hump's death?"

Cragen practically barked, "Would you rather someone else did it?"

Internal Affairs was all over the case but everyone involved in the trial was a suspect. "Hell, every weirdo in the city is a suspect. This was a high profile case," Munch reminded everyone.

"And Doc was a sympathetic victim," Olivia added.

_Jonathan tossed and turned. He wasn't sleeping. The scene replayed itself. At the time, it'd been so satisfying but now, back in his child's persona, he was having trouble reconciling what he did with being her son. Had he not changed at all since his life in Belfast? Deep down was he a killer after all?_

_He heard someone calling his name. "Hey, kid, you did the right thing. Let it go." The shadowy figure put out a cigarette._

On one fucking hand, they couldn't find the killer, on the other, a search of the victims's stored belongings strengthened Kasey's original case. They found the defibrillator. "That sick fuck. He really did it, had her killed and revived again and again," she said when Olivia and Finn told her what they'd found. She finished her drink at the bar. "Would be nice to have it in the win column. Thanks, guys. I got an early court date tomorrow."

The case went cold after a month.

Jonathan was still having nightmares about the murder.

_He dragged the man upstairs to the fucker's bedroom. He stripped the bed and threw the man down on it._

_"__What are you? What the fuck are you?!" the man blubbered._

_"__I'm your worst nightmare. One of your sick fantasies come to life." He duct-taped the man's hands and feet, straightened his arms and legs and duct-taped him to the simple bed frame. He whipped the tip of the blade under the man's chin and pressed slowly until he drew the first blood. "You know what I'm gonna do to you, worm?" Terrified, the man shook his head, drawing more blood. "I'm gonna cut off your dick and feed it to you, you motherfucker!" he screamed in the man's face, spittle flying. The maggot actually cried for his mommy. He began screaming as Jonathan patiently carved the figures into his flesh. No one could hear him scream; Jonathan made sure everything appeared normal to the neighbors. Took his time. "You know what this is?" he said aloud, "This is art, baby," he paused and stared deeply into the man's black soul, mirroring his own, "I'm gonna make you a star."_

_When he was through carving, he grabbed the man's hair and slit his throat in one clean stroke. It was a formality. The vile thing had passed out already. The knife and tape disappeared. Less evidence for the police to deal with. He felt dizzy and stumbled into the bathroom. Covered in blood, he gazed into the mirror. His irises appeared black. He looked like Carrie at the fucking prom. Started the shower running. Suddenly he laughed out loud. "You're a fucking monster. 'A vampire or a victim, it depends on who's around,'" he softly sang one of his father's lyrics as he let the cold water raise goose bumps on his flesh. He laughed again. "Isn't this where I came in?" Once all the blood was gone and he'd washed out his hair, he engaged in counter forensics - clearing the drains, running bleach over everything in the bathroom._

_He stepped back into the bedroom and looked back on his busy day. Leave the bloody finger prints, he decided; they were part of the display now. They wouldn't be matched to a ten tear old boy. Slowly he descended the stars, "Alex descends into hell for bottle of milk," he quoted sardonically. Downstairs, he took several deep breaths, stretched and relaxed. He remade his clothes for his present size : fitted jeans, white t-shirt, dock shoes and a battered leather jacket._

_Two blocks away, as he was walking, the patrol car pulled up. "Excuse me, sir, mind if we ask what you're doing in this neighborhood?" Jonathan took the initiative, laying his arm along the roof of the car and his other hand on the open window to dissuade the senior officer from getting out of the car. "Evening, officers. Just out enjoying the weather while it lasts."_

_"__Can I see some i.d., please?" _

_"__Uh, I don't have my wallet with me," he patted his jacket pockets for show._

_"__Hey, I know you," the younger officer said from behind the wheel. "You're dat guy."_

_Annoyed, his sergeant asked, "What guy?"_

_"__Dat Irish guy, from dat band. You know; your kids listen to 'em."_

_"__Oh, yeah? That right, sir?"_

_Jonathan held up his hand, "Guilty. Ya got me."_

_"__No fucking way. Hey, can I get your autograph? My girlfriend'll kill me if I don't."_

_"__Sure," he took the officer's notebook and pen, "why not?" he asked himself and scribbled, "Who do I make it out to?"_

_"__Debbie. Oh, man, she is gonna freak."_

_"__How 'bout you? You know, for your kids?" he grinned with all his Irish charm and started scribbling his father's name on another page._

_"__Well, since you're offering."_

_"__Who do I make it out to?"_

_The sergeant answered, "New York's Finest," and grinned back._

_"__New York's Finest, I love it," he finished with a flourish. "Here you go, gentlemen. Is it alright if I finish my walk or, uh, am I interfering with a police investigation," he joked. Both men laughed. "You're fine, sir, just take care and enjoy your evening."_

_"__Thank you, thanks. Thanks so much, officers." He motioned them on their way. After they turned the corner, he blew out a breath. "I fucking hate it when that happens." There was a chill in the air, the sun was going down. He walked to Tribeca, found a bar and picked up a hipster chick because he wasn't familiar to her. They went back to her place and fucked each other's brains out, he cooked her dinner and they fucked again. About an hour before dawn, he woke her with a kiss. "This was perfect, just what I needed, thank you," he murmured warmly, "but I gotta go, Trixie."_

_She pouted, "It's Rachel." He laughed throatily and kissed her below her navel. "I know but you'll always be Trixie to me," he said twirling her hair around his finger. She laughed back and shoved him out of bed." He dressed in no hurry, "Listen, I meant it. You were great."_

_"__You weren't so bad yourself," she lay back and stretched till her toes curled. He sucked one as she playfully kicked at him. At the door, he turned back and said, "May the road rise up to meet you, Trixie." Then he was gone._

_Literally gone, he never made it to the street. He woke up in the monastery. Shit, fuck me._

_This could be the longest night in recorded history_

_And as for sleep, you might as well just cross it _

_off the list of possibilities_

_#_

_The time is now to take my wares into the street_

_And I know how; the street's been good to me_

_Maybe it's a sign of a wise man, maybe a sign of a fool_

_Maybe it's a night for a rendezvous with a woman like you._

_It's gone too far, I'll take my life into the street_

_I feel the need and I can't stop myself_


End file.
